By Mila Glodava
Please note: A recent Facebook post on L’Angelus reminded me of an essay I wrote in 2015 for my Church and Modernity at Augustine Institute, for my Master of Arts in Theology. My professor, Dr. Christopher Blum, liked it enough he asked if he could share it with other students.
While in the Philippines last month on a mission, I witnessed, once again, the Filipinos’ simple, yet deep faith. With rosaries, medals, and the iconic statue of the Santo Nino or the Child Jesus in hand, seven million Filipinos huddled shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped quadrants at Luneta Park or filled every inch of the streets leading up to the park. They did not mind the rain and storm to see Pope Francis in Tacloban and Manila, with the hope that the Pope would bless not only their sacred objects but, more importantly, their lives. The Filipinos, who have experienced many well-known trials and sufferings such as the worst-recorded typhoon in history, exuded happiness in being with the Vicar of Christ, who specifically came to the Philippines to show his solidarity with Filipinos in their sufferings. This is not the first time, of course, that Filipinos amazed the world with record-breaking attendance. I still remember the five million people at Mass to conclude the 1995 World Youth Day.
What is the source of this exuberance and the ease they gather for communal worship? It must have something to do with the Filipinos’ love for religious celebrations. They celebrate their patron saints on their feast days, the fiesta, with processions and Mass, and dancing later in the town plaza. They have communal celebrations to honor the Blessed Mother such as the Flores de Mayo (Flowers of May) at the end of May. Devotees go back home in droves (much like the Thanksgiving travelers in the United States) to the province from the city to celebrate the saints and the deceased loved ones during the Undas on Nov. 1 and 2. The procession in honor of the Black Nazarene, which draws millions of devotees, takes nearly a day to reach the church. As they say in my native language, “Pagkahabahaba man ng prosisyon, sa simbahan din ang tuloy,” which means, no matter how long the procession is, it will still end up in church. Celebrations such as these mean fellowship and breaking bread and praying together, just as what the apostles and the early Christians did in the nascent Church.
I must admit that after more than 42 years in America, I have forgotten the many religious practices in my native country. Actually, in the beginning, I felt something was missing in my worship. I pined for the para-liturgies in which I participated when I was a child, especially during Holy Week. There was no “Hosanna” on Palm Sunday the way we used to, where young girls dressed as angels were on a high stage singing “Hosanna” and throwing rose petals to the faithful below as the priest walked on shawls the old ladies threw on the ground to serve as carpet for the celebrant, to depict Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. There was no “Stations of the Cross” around town where designated homes served as “Stations of the Cross,” and that the entire town stood still on their knees to venerate the Cross. There was no singing of the “Pasyon,” the Passion of Christ, and the “Siete Palabras” or Seven Last Words of Jesus Christ, on the Cross on Good Friday. There was no “Salubong” at dawn on Easter Sunday to re-enact, supposedly, the meeting between the Blessed Mother and Jesus after his resurrection, and, again, with young girls dressed as angels perched on a stage above, singing the “Regina Coeli,” and then pulling the Blessed Mother’s black veil to indicate that her mourning was over.
While these rituals and traditions might not mean much to other cultures, they seem to help uplift the spirit of Filipinos during times of tragedies and natural calamities, even exuding happiness despite their sufferings. They seem to say, “Jesus Christ was born and was a child just like us (thus their devotion to the Santo Nino), suffered on the cross and died to redeem us from our sins, and his resurrection gives us hope for happiness in the end.”
Because I have forgotten these rituals and traditions, I have failed to tell my own children the stories of my past. This is my own crisis of memory. What a shame! I hope, however, that it is not too late to tell them that my past and the traditions in my native country have made me what I am today, and that somehow it would help them in their own present faith journey.
